


In Some Given Grace

by Literary



Series: You Cannot Make Remembrance Grow [2]
Category: Pocket Monsters | Pokemon (Main Video Game Series), Pocket Monsters: Sun & Moon | Pokemon Sun & Moon Versions
Genre: F/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-12-19
Updated: 2016-12-19
Packaged: 2018-09-09 16:55:07
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,092
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/8900338
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Literary/pseuds/Literary
Summary: She can’t remember what started it. She only knows that it’s happening now.





	

**Author's Note:**

> Write about: ✓ — a sexual memory. Sent to my Anabel RP blog by Anonymous. Headcanon: Anabel's on the ace spectrum, and her lack of memories has caused her some self-doubt and confusion.
> 
> Minor edits on 24 January 2017.

She can’t remember what started it. She only knows that it’s happening _now_ , and it feels so nice she doesn’t want it to end. He’s warm against her back, his hair brushing over the top of her shoulder as he presses his lips to her skin, and he’s rocking into her—slowly, gently—as if they have all the time in the world. It’s easy to lose herself in it all, the press of his thumb against her hip as he strokes it, the way his stubble scraps at her bare back as he kisses up her shoulder again, the soft _whoosh_ of his breath against her hair as he noses it aside.

His hand slips from her hip to the inside of her knee, hitching it up just far enough that he can press closer, and murmurs something appreciative-sounding against the side of her neck. The lack of talking strikes her as odd, but she’s too far gone to care about it; she’s not even sure she can find words worth saying. She can’t remember having ever felt so close to overwhelmed from something so wonderful.

She’s not sure when his hand moves; she only knows that it’s slipped between her legs. Her back arches on contact, his skin hot against hers.

Everything is hazy-warm, humming on the edge of a precipice. The strangest thing is that she feels perfectly safe like this, with him. Because it’s _him_ , of course; she’s trusted him with her life for years, and if not her life than why not her _feelings_ , too, stunted and awkward as they are, sometimes.

The moment is ruined by a hard light behind her eyes, pain so sharp that she mistakes it for a migraine. Dismay curls in her chest, thoughts tumbling over one another as she hears his voice again, the words cloudy but the tone so full of concern it makes her stomach feel as if it’s dropping through the floor. They’ll have to stop, now—and he’ll think that even this is too stressful for her. She can’t think coherently beyond that point, beyond him seeing her as some breakable thing; beyond the concept of disappointment lurking just below the worry in his voice.

God, can’t she do _anything_ ri—

* * *

 

“Chief?”

His voice, heavy with concern, forced her eyes to open. She stared into the shadows, confused, for only a moment before there was a soft click from the bedside table. Yellow light flooded the little room.

She blinked up at Mr. Looker from the floor, mind whirling.

“Chief?” he tried again. “Are you all right?”

She couldn’t quite find her voice, but she managed a nod.

“Ah!” came Mr. Looker’s soft laugh, still edged with concern, as awareness crept back into her brain. “That is a relief! You gave—“

The silly one-vacancy motel.

“—a scare, Chief. I thought you might have knocked yourself—“

The awkward agreement to share the single bed.

“—given yourself a concussion. I suspected there would not be enough room—”

The _dream_.

She felt her face warm to an incomprehensible temperature.

“I do _apologize,_ though, for pushing you out—“

Her face was starting to hurt from all of the blood rushing to it, or maybe that was from hitting her head on the nightstand.

“Chief?”

Anabel felt, quite suddenly, as if she might cry.

Heart pounding so hard she could have sworn even Mr. Looker was able to hear it, she scrambled to her feet and all but threw herself into the small adjoining bathroom.

She just—she needed a moment, perhaps several of them, to sort things out.

Sharing the motel room had not been such a terrible turn of events. They were both so busy and focused on their job…it hadn’t crossed her mind to be concerned about it. She’d ignored Mr. Looker’s odd habit of adjusting his tie and had accepted the room; it was better than nothing, and if they didn’t take it, they’d be sleeping outside.

The room was small and only had a bed and a chair by way of furniture one could actually relax in, which was standard for motel rooms of this sort. Anabel was used to it after working ten years in her line of work; Interpol didn’t like to spring for more expensive accommodations. The chair was ruled out immediately; it was too rickety even for Anabel’s smaller frame (though she would have certainly been willing to try).

Mr. Looker offered her the bed.

Which she refused, only to offer him the bed.

Which he refused.

The argument lasted until she dared to use her authoritative voice, one she reserved for use on rambunctious children irritating their parents on public transit and arresting criminals: they were both reasonable adults, they were both tired, and they both needed sleep—which they would not get on the _floor_.

They were going to share the bed. They didn’t even have to share _blankets_ , because she always carried an extra just in case. She would stay on her side and no, she wouldn’t fall out.

But then there had been the _dream_ —

She felt her face redden again just at the memory of it, and tried to push it away again before her body humiliated her further by responding.

While it would have been nice to pretend that the man in her dream was a nameless, faceless placeholder for fantasy, Anabel wasn’t in the business of lying to herself. It had definitely been Mr. Looker: the soft sound against her neck… It had been the same one she’d heard a million times before when he read something that amused him in the paper. She was predisposed to liking the sound of it.

And she wasn’t one for fantasizing, either, not about sex.

None of her current memories contained anything more than an idle curiosity toward the physical act of sex. She couldn’t recall ever having cared about it; it was something other people did and enjoyed, but she was content without it.

And while she had certainly had her doubts regarding her _lost_ memories, they were such a mire of depressing what-ifs that she discarded the consideration entirely. Who she was Before didn’t matter anymore; the only Anabel that mattered was who she was _now_.

She took a deep breath and let it back out again as if doing so would expel the dream and her self-doubt. With her thoughts calmer, even her flustered mind was able to make a solid connection to her dream and Mr. Looker: _it wasn’t about the sex_. It was everything else.

And while a part of her wondered if she ought to be embarrassed by this realization, the rest of her shoved it away. Perhaps she did not think of sex or care about it as others did, but that didn’t mean that she had to feel silly for wanting it for her own reasons—like everything that had seemed nice about it in her dream.

Was there anything wrong with wanting to feel accepted and cared about as a full and complete person by someone else—not just a name or a title or a career path, the kinds of things that meant little in the end?

The dream wasn’t really so terrible—unless she had spoken in her sleep, of course. Unless Mr. Looker had _heard_ something—

But of course he _hadn’t_. He hadn’t. He was easily flustered. He wore his heart on his sleeve even when he tried not to. And he would be, well, _bothered,_ wouldn’t he, to realize his boss was dreaming of him like that? They were longtime work acquaintances and friends, but…a dream like that was crossing a line. He would never manage his normal mannerisms after overhearing something obviously _weird_.

So no, it wasn’t so bad. And while she was being positive, at least she knew she wasn’t _desperate_. Mr. Looker was perhaps quite near the _ideal_ , being attractive, intelligent, and in possession of a good sense of humor. More importantly, he tried to be consid—

There was a hesitant knock on the thin door.

“Ah… Chief? I don’t wish to disturb you, but—I think I should, uh, ask… Are you all right?”

She took another deep breath in and let it out. The only thing silly about this was _hiding_. He didn’t know anything except that she had fallen, and he was probably worried she’d sustained a concussion. Her hand was steady when she turned the doorknob and came face to face with her fidgety partner.

“Sorry,” she said, and meant the apology for having worried him unnecessarily.

“Don’t—you really have no _reason_ —“ he waved his hand emphatically. “I am the one—it was me, you know, who pushed you out of bed. And, uh, took your blanket. It seems.” He had the good graces to look ashamed of himself. “I am guilty, yes, though I assure you I did not know I was capable of it until tonight!”

She snorted at the absurdity of the entire situation, or maybe it was Mr. Looker’s earnest expression that did her in. He really was sorry for shoving her out of bed. And stealing her blanket. She tried to cover the smile that was threatening to come out, but at Mr. Looker’s next declaration, an over-the-top, “It won’t happen again, I swear it!” she burst into laughter, embarrassingly loud.

“I-I’m sorry,” she tried to tell him, but his confused expression only set her off again, forcing her to grab at her stomach. When she could breathe again, she shook her hair back from her face and tried again:  “I’m not laughing _at_ you, it’s—“

“Hey—” He was already reaching for her, the fingers of his left hand threading through her bangs, lifting them with deliberate care as he muttered, wincing a little, “oh,” and then, “Anabel,” and finally, almost gently, “I wasn’t wrong to worry, no, not at all, not a _bit_.”

She heard all of the rest of it long after her name.

And she thought: _why does this matter?_

And, _what does this mean?_

As he reached around her for the towel and turned on the sink, it hit her.

 _Oh_ , she thought as he pressed it to her forehead. _Oh,_ as he tsk’d over the state of her bleeding head _. Oh!_ as he busied himself with fixing her up.

She failed to realize she was smiling absently at him until he pulled back to look at her from his natural height, one he’d had to lower to tend to her injury. His forehead showed his concern even more prominently than his eyes did.

“Are you dizzy?” he turned her head slightly to the side as if he could figure her out that way. “Anabel, do you need to sit down?”

The smile wouldn’t go away.

“Please don’t fuss so much,” she said, tone light. “I’m fine, Mr. Looker.”

He stared for a moment longer before he was back to his usual self. “Right you are, Chief, and all thanks to the fact that I always pack the most thorough of first-aid kits. I really must apologize again—please, this _is_ my fault. I would never—well, n-not on _purpose_ , anyway, since I suppose I _did_ —“

“You’re forgiven,” she assured him, brushing past him on her way out of the bathroom.

“You’re sure you’re all right?” he asked, turning on his heel to follow after as if concerned she wouldn’t make it to the bed.

“I’m going back to sleep.”

“But you see—the alarm—you set it for five-thirty, did you not? And it’s—well, it’s five, now!”

She hesitated, and then shrugged. “A half-hour is a half-hour, Mr. Looker. Are you coming?”

His hand moved up to adjust a tie that wasn’t there. “N-no, I think not. I will, ah, perhaps get our things together to leave at the, uh, predetermined time.”

She fell into the bed, taking up the entire thing by herself—at least, it felt like it. His side smelled like him, and she smiled contentedly into his pillow.

“Or I could, ah, procure breakfast, if you like?”

“Mm, sounds nice,” she admitted, feeling halfway back to sleep already.

“But, ah—but first I should—“ The sound of his bare feet on the carpet came closer and then she felt a weight settle over her shoulders. “Your, ah…blanket. Which I did not mean to take from you. You’ll sleep better with it, I’m sure. I hope. Good night Chief—or rather, hah, good morning?”

She didn’t answer, having already fallen asleep.

**Author's Note:**

> "Love was a knowledge that could never be found—only attained, in some twist of fate. In some given grace."  
> -[Obaona](https://www.fanfiction.net/s/1129059/1/Forbidden)


End file.
